[MiSTers Notes:
I have known John Nowak for a number of years. John Nowak, the original author
of this piece, is a dark and gloomy soul. When the wind of liberation blew
over this globe early in this decade, when the Berlin Wall and apartheid
crumbled and the skies rang with the laughter of those dancing on the rubble,
he was heard to say, "I know this is going to turn out badly. People are just
too happy." The light of love, joy, and laughter pains him, and he shrinks
from it.
If his life and career are examined, there is nothing that justifies this. He
should be more optimistic, but he isn't; he shouldn't have written a Rescue
Rangers story, but he did.
It must be admitted, however, that his grammar is acceptable.
-- John Nowak
As for being the co-conspirator on this MiSTing, I found it a strange
experience, for I actually enjoyed the original quite a bit. So, the question
became "Can Joel and the Bots actually read a good fanfic without
tearing it apart?". Naturally, they can't, but that really wasn't a hard
question to begin with.
In any case, I hope the fans of the story are as open-minded about it
as John was, seeing as how he initiated the MiSTing.
-- Matt Plotecher]
[1...2...3...4...5...6...SoL]
[The SoL set is bedecked with large flowers made of construction paper, and
books by Beverly Cleary. Joel holds a popsicle. Crow wears a Buster Brown
suit, holds a lollipop, and looks murderous. He is not enjoying this.]
JOEL: Hi, everybody. We've been feeling a little depressed recently and so
I've declared this Happy Innocence Day.
CROW: [mumbling] It was *his* idea.
JOEL: Just work with me on this, buddy; you'll get into it.
[CROW mutters darkly. TOM appears, dressed as Totoro. He carries a sheaf of
paper in his hands.]
JOEL: And here's Tom Servo, to read from his favorite author!
CROW: [hopefully] Herman Hesse?
TOM: [laughs] No, no, my little man. I have instead chosen selections from
the late, great Theodore Geisel.
CROW: Who?
JOEL: Doctor Seuss. [JOEL beams.]
CROW: Tom, buddy - not you too!
[Spotlight on TOM SERVO. He clears his throat. Throughout TOM's speech, JOEL
looks entranced and CROW looks disgusted.]
TOM: This is from Geisel's first screenplay, which was made into a film
between the end of World War Two and before his first book. The title is
_Hitler Lives!_
[CROW turns his head to look at TOM, more interested. JOEL flinches.]
JOEL: ...The hell?
TOM: [reading from his script] "If you look upon your brother and you hate
him for the color of his skin or his creed, then Hitler lives in you -"
JOEL: [slightly frantic] Tom, Tom... while agreeing with the sentiment, I
don't think you quite understand -
TOM: What, Joel?
JOEL: ...I mean, my respect for Doctor Seuss has gone to a higher level, but -
TOM: [exasperated] Then what?
[JOEL is deeply troubled while the bots look at him expectantly. There is a
pause. The message light starts flashing. JOEL smiles and slaps the control.]
JOEL: [grinning] Thank you, sirs.
[GIZMONICS: FORRESTER's face fills the screen. The fact JOEL has thanked him
deeply startles him. FRANK races across the screen behind him, swatting panic-
stricken at a belt pouch he wears which is emitting smoke.]
FORRESTER: Uh... our invention exchange is still undergoing tests. You go
first.
[JOEL and the BOTS on the SoL. JOEL takes out a prescription bottle.]
JOEL: Well, sirs, I've been having some trouble sleeping recently, so my
doctor faxed me these pills. I happened to notice there's a warning
label on them. [reads label] "Caution: May Cause drowsiness."
[GIZMONICS]
FORRESTER: You are kidding, aren't you?
[SoL: TOM holds a can of coffee; CROW holds a credit card, GYPSY a paperback
book.]
JOEL: Not a bit, sir. So we came up with other, equally useful, warning messages.
TOM: Coffee: contains caffeine, an addictive stimulant.
CROW: Warning: credit cards allow you to spend money without cash.
GYPSY: Dostoevsky's _The Brothers Karamazov_: May cause you to question your
core assumptions about the relationship between Man and God.
[Pause]
CROW: Good one, Gypsy.
[GIZMONICS: FRANK stumbles next to FORRESTER. He holds a pair of tongs with a
smoking belt pouch between them.]
FORRESTER: Nice try at making a joke sound like an invention exchange.
FRANK: It almost melted my hip, Dr. F.
FORRESTER: Oh. Well, file an incident report. Invention can cripple user.
Severity 1, since it stops executing; Priority 5, because I don't
really care.
FRANK: Yes, sir.
FORRESTER: Your experiment today is a fanfic based on a show even Disney has
stopped milking for profits. _Under the Bridge_, a fan's idea of an
adventure with Chip 'n' Dale's Rescue Rangers. Read it through
polarized lenses.
[SoL: JOEL smiles affably.]
JOEL: Well, sirs, no matter how wretched the writing or how poor the grammar,
at least it'll be light-hearted fun.
[GIZMONICS: FRANK and FORRESTER look at one another, back at the camera, and smile.]
FORRESTER: Perfect.
[6 ... 5 ... 4 ... 3 ... 2 ... 1 ... Theater]
>Under the Bridge
>
ALL: [singing] And through the woods to Grandmother's house we go...
>Chapter One : Pertaining to Gastroscopes
>
>"So what exactly is a gastroscope anyway?"
>
JOEL: And why are they putting one on the Hubble?
>It was breakfast time, and the latest issue of Technophile had arrived
>for Gadget Hackwrench, delivered as usual by special courier. Most of
>her attention was devoted to the glossy pages, still warm from the
>press. Her right hand, holding a spoon, was shoveling the contents of a
>bowl into her mouth. So engrossed was she that she had not yet noticed
>that the bowl had been emptied long before. Chip understood that to
>break through that wall, conversational gambits would either need to 1)
>appeal to her generous nature or 2) give her a chance to show off.
TOM: Okay, since when has Gadget been rude enough to read at the table?
JOEL: If that's as bad as this gets, I'll be happy.
TOM: One hundred seventeen words, and nothing misspelled. This'll be a snap.
>"A gastroscope," she said, "is a flexible fiber optic tube they run into
>someone so they can see his insides."
JOEL: See, this fanfic instructs and entertains!
CROW: I've got to admit I like an occasional dose of technobabble.
>Chip waited expectantly for her to cap the statement with a question
>showing polite interest. "Why this talk of gastroscopes, Chip?" or
>something similar. Dale looked up from his food, over at Gadget, over at
>Chip, and shook his head without a word.
TOM: So Dale has no vocabulary?
JOEL: It's not surprising.
>"I ask," Chip continued doggedly, "because the hospital reported one
>stolen last week." He paused, waiting in vain for a response.
CROW: You know you're in trouble when your own characters can't be bothered
with the plot.
> "One of
>the Human hospitals by the East River. The storage room door was locked
>but there was a recently cut mouse hole in the ceiling. Why would an
>animal steal a gastroscope sized for Humans?"
JOEL: I have the awful feeling we're going to find out.
>"I think someone's looking for someone inside of a cat," Dale said, his
>words slow.
CROW: Sounding each one out in his head before saying it.
>"They'll return it once they've found him."
>
>"Dale," Chip asked, concerned, "Does it hurt to think like you? What do
>you think, Gadget?"
>
>But Gadget had reached the centerfold. It was a cutaway diagram of an
>aerospike engine and she didn't hear him.
CROW: ...A crimson blush spread over her features, as her lithe body began to
tremble.
TOM: Care-ful...
>"Don't bother, Chip lad," Monterey Jack said sadly. Reasoning that if
>Gadget was still eating (sort of) she was probably hungry, he ladled
>more breakfast into her bowl. It was a porridge of cheese in cheese
>sauce. The sound Gadget's spoon made was changed slightly - from a
>clatter to a plop -- but there was no other indication of the fact she
>was now actually eating.
JOEL: We've replaced Gadget's ordinary breakfast with the gunk Monty scraped
off the grill last night. Let's see if she notices.
> He shook his head in mock sorrow and lay a
>gentle, but massive (for a mouse) paw on her head. She didn't notice.
TOM: Not even when he bashed her head into the table.
>"She's left us an' won't be back for some time. Her father used to hide
>Technophile until after meals."
CROW: [MONTY] ...when she could sneak up to her bedroom without bein'
too bloomin' obvious...
JOEL: Strike one.
CROW: Darn.
TOM: Told ya.
>"Could I have more?" Dale asked, passing his bowl over to Monty.
CROW: [MONTY] Oliver, we've discussed this already.
> Monty
>spooned him another serving.
>
>"Careful," Chip chided. "You'll get fatter," giving an unpleasant
>emphasis on the "ter."
>
>"I'm not fat."
>
>"Are too."
>
>"Am not!"
>
>"Are too!"
>
>They continued in this vein. Zipper the fly
CROW: As opposed to who? Zipper the moose?
> closed his
>eyes and buzzed at Monty.
TOM: With mealtime conversation like this, it's no wonder Gadget is off in
her own little world.
CROW: The Rescue Rangers need to watch "A Date With Your Family".
>
>"Yes, Zipper," Monty said. "It appears we two are the only ones left..."
>
>His voice trailed off as a cold, familiar shiver was running up his
>spine and out his mustache;
CROW: Ah, Zipper dropped a piece of ice down Monty's back again.
> instinctively, he darted a glance at the
>nearest body of water - which in this case, was the sink. There was
>nothing unusual.
JOEL: Any monsters in the sink?
TOM: Nope.
JOEL: Under the bed?
TOM: Nope, but there are these scratches...
>Monty laughed to himself and made his first major mistake of the day.
TOM: Getting out of bed?
>There was not a periscope in the sink, he thought. That would be absurd.
TOM: Guys, I can't make it over the scene separator.
>===
[JOEL lifts TOM over the equals signs.]
>Jürgen jerked the gastroscope down. "Close," he said grimly.
CROW: [WOLF] But...*no cigar!*
>Jürgen was of average size (for a mouse), thin, and wore the same white
>sweater and black pants as his crew. The only thing that marked him as
>skipper of the Albacore was a white captain's hat, now worn backwards
JOEL: I'm having trouble picturing a Hip Hop naval officer.
CROW: He's probably got an "X" on the hat.
> to
>keep the visor from pressing against the eyepiece. He straightened while
>adjusting his hat.
>
>"I don't think he saw it," he told the Gray Mouse.
>
>Jürgen did not know her real name. She was tall (for a female mouse),
>about his own height. Long gray hair, white fur,
JOEL: So in point of fact, she is a *white* mouse.
TOM: This message brought to you by the Nomenclature Council.
> pink eyes.
CROW: That's really contagious. She should go home.
> She was
>actually rather attractive, apart from her aura of evil and death.
JOEL: "Aura of evil and death." This is the Rescue Rangers and we have
someone with an "aura of evil and death"?
TOM: I swear, if anyone pops claws out of their hands...
> She
>wore what resembled a black wetsuit, with a matching waist length cloak
>fastened in the middle of her throat, draped over her left arm, around
>her back and on her right shoulder, leaving her right arm free. Her
>breathing mask was pushed up to the top of her head.
CROW: Fashions by George Lucas.
> Considering she was
>the designer and builder of Albacore,
ALL: Baltimore!
> the scuba gear she constantly wore
>did nothing for morale. Jürgen never brought that up with her.
>
>"If he did, he'll pass it off as a flashback from naval air duty during
>the war," she said.
ALL: [Shocked silence]
JOEL: Monty has post traumatic stress syndrome?
TOM: From serving in the *Navy* ?!
CROW: DURING THE *WAR*!?
JOEL: I'm starting to dislike this fanfic, guys.
>"How long can we stay here?"
CROW: How long can you hold your breath?
>Jürgen sighed. The Gray Mouse had never overreacted to bad news yet, but
TOM: She had been meaning to start.
>nobody particularly wanted to be the first to set her off.
JOEL: Well, I can see how you'd be nervous about a boss who won't tell you
her name.
> "Ma'am, our
>air supply is down to 5% of maximum. I suggest we leave the sewer and
>replenish soon. We can come back if you think it best."
>
>The Gray Mouse's ears perked, annoyed. "We can surface any time."
>
>"Ma'am," Jürgen said stiffly, "we do not want to breathe the air out
>there." Around the bridge, crewmen shook their heads firmly in agreement
>with their captain.
TOM: Hints for writers: a shake means no. A nod means yes.
>A few seconds passed. The Gray Mouse turned away reluctantly. "Very
>well. As you think best."
>
>Jürgen nodded briskly and touched the visor of his hat. He turned
>towards the bow, where a young officer bat stiffened to an alert
>position. "Mr. Fenton, you may resume active pinging."
JOEL: This is a "DuckTales" crossover?
TOM: Maybe "Kevin and Kell".
>"Sir," saluted Fenton. He turned to the sonically transparent panel in
>the front of the bridge, next to the helmsman. "PING!" he yelled, and
>listened expectantly. "PING!"
TOM: And then, for variety's sake, went "Pong."
>"Retract the gastroscope. Blow tanks one and four. Let's not hit any
>alligators on the way out."
>
>Albacore
ALL: Tuna!
> was mostly a large hot water heater, with a welded bow and
>PumpJet astern based on an old washing machine. Unusually for a
>submarine, Albacore had a fully enclosed bridge, which served as a
>control room - the confusion between the terms was something Jürgen
>blamed on Star Truck.
TOM: And the distinction between "control room" and "bridge" is So Important
to our plot.
> Large saw blades ran from bow to the top of the
>forward part of the bridge, and along the sides and bottom of the bow.
>The blades would cut fishnet and gave the black vessel a strangely
>familiar appearance.
JOEL: That submarine looks like [XXXXXX XXX XXXX]!
CROW: In the interests of National Security, the name of that cartoon
character is classified.
TOM: The Tacit Blue sketch, ladies and gentlemen.
> Someone out in the water would have seen air
>bubbles emerge from the Albacore's bow and stern and the boat gently
>leave the bottom of the sewer, assuming they could see through the gross
>and slimy water.
JOEL: Thank you. With that little mental image I do believe I am ready to
attack my day.
>"All ahead one third."
>
>"Ahead one third aye."
CROW: "One third aye" would be "a".
>"Very well."
>
>The Gray Mouse watched the activity with mingled pride and sorrow. Every
>word of command and action was directed towards using the product of her
>own genius and labor; but at the same time she realized Jürgen could
>command and use her
CROW: [voice trembling] Oh, yes...
> invention
CROW: [disappointed] Oh.
> far better than she ever could.
[All cough and whistle innocently.]
> The crew
>would follow him; they would not follow her. Maybe it's because he
>projects a desire to live, she thought. Or something.
CROW: Although I've never served in the Navy I imagine I'd much prefer a
commander who wanted to live.
>"Mr. Calvert,
TOM: Calvert?
CROW: HA HA!
JOEL: What?
TOM: Don't you get it?
JOEL: Uh... yeah. I was just kidding. Calvert. Heh.
> make certain our present location is marked on your map."
>Jürgen raised his voice slightly.
>
>"Yes, sir," chimed Mr. Calvert, a young squirrel.
TOM: So this is what Tammy's father does for a living.
>The order was probably meant to reassure her that the purpose of their
>mission had been carried out; but it was too obvious Mr. Calvert had
>things well under control, that Jürgen knew it, and the order was given
>for her benefit. The knowledge she was observing a partnership she was
>not and could never be part of washed over her, as the engines she
>designed rumbled with power and spun her turbine in her PumpJet and
>moved them gently forward.
JOEL: Y'know, if you're feeling left out sometimes sharing your name with
people you work with helps.
>"Mr. Jürgen, I will be in my meditation chamber."
JOEL: "Empire Strikes Back" reference.
TOM: Check.
>Jürgen paused and nodded respectfully. The Gray Mouse turned on her
>heel, making her cape snap dramatically. She stepped onto a circular
>elevator, which began to sink. Light from the room below lit her, making
>her look sinister. Which, of course, was the point.
CROW: At least this evil mastermind is honest enough to admit it.
>It's always a mix, isn't it? She thought. Never joy without sorrow.
TOM: At least, not in one of Nowak's fanfics.
> No,
>not true. One thing brings me unsullied pleasure.
JOEL: No comment.
> The thought of the
>goal she would soon reach played across her face. Mr. Calvert saw the
>Gray Mouse smile. He blanched and had nightmares for weeks.
CROW: I understand that when your boss's smile gives you nightmares, it's
time to change your job.
JOEL: Great. Now you tell me.
>
>Chapter Two : Breakfast and The Temple of Hate
JOEL: Hey, I stayed there once. It's near Chicago.
>Gadget finished the last page of an article titled "Affection for
>Machines is Healthy and Normal."
CROW: "Unless You're a Mouse."
> Feeling reassured, she looked up,
>blinking with surprise when she noticed she was alone at the table.
>Monty was cooking a second course of breakfast. She felt a bit hungry,
>and was looking forward to more. Odd of the others to leave so early.
>
>"The first course was delicious, Monty," she said, "I could eat two
>bowls. What are you cooking now?"
>
>"Lunch, luv."
ALL: [Rimshot]
>Gadget blinked. "Omigosh. Don't tell me I zoned out."
>
>Monterey shook his head. "I won't."
>
>"Did I miss anything?"
>
>Monty looked at her solemnly. "You got engaged."
CROW: [MONTY] With the chipmunks gone, *I* get the good lines.
>"Uhm, I'd remember that," she deadpanned, "I'm almost sure."
TOM: Given how you've been written so far, I just don't know...
>Monty flipped a cheese flapjack, grinning. "Chip thinks an animal stole
>a gastroscope."
>
>Gadget blinked. "From a Human hospital?" Chip was most worried about
>crimes committed by animals on Humans, because he was afraid a Human
>investigation would stumble across the animal civilization which had
>grown along side of theirs.
JOEL: Think that's a plot point?
TOM: Probably not.
CROW: I'm just wondering what the sudden deal is with capitalizing the "h"
in "human". Have the Rangers become Ferengi suddenly?
>Monty turned, concerned. "Yes. Does that ring a bell?"
ALL: [bark]
>"No, but it's weird. I mean, maybe a cat would use it to look down a
>mouse hole, or something, but..." she trailed off and looked thoughtful.
>
>Monty shrugged. If she came up with an idea, she'd let them know.
TOM: Any chance they'll let us in on it?
>===
CROW: If you're using a Courier font, both lanes can pass.
>The Gray Mouse's meditation chamber was done in a style Jürgen thought
>of as "Temple of Hate." Defaced life sized photographs and posters
>lined the walls - all with the same disfigured face. A name, written
>upside down over and over again in dripping red paint, shortened by one
>letter each time.
JOEL: Did he know about this *before* he agreed to work for her?
CROW: [JÜRGEN] I've always wanted to work for a psychopathic killer.
> The Gray Mouse stood before a life sized PVC figurine
>in a hydraulic press, watching as the plates moved together, grinding
>and crushing the effigy.
TOM: I'll bet a collector would pay a lot for those.
> Like a watermelon seed between two fingers, the
>head shot out across the room; reflexively, Jürgen put out his hands and
>caught it, stinging his paws.
>
>"Darn," she said to herself. "Too fast."
CROW: See? She's not a typical evil megalomaniac - she works at it.
JOEL: Yes. Laudable.
>Jürgen cleared his throat gently, tucking the plastic head under his
>arm. "My apologies for intruding."
>
>"Jürgen, I've only got about a dozen of these left."
TOM: Hey, I'll buy a few from you.
>"Should we go back to Orlando soon?"
>
>"No. Very soon I won't need any more." She smiled. Peace at last.
TOM: Then you'll have some to spare? Great!
>"Perhaps even sooner than you think."
>
>The Gray Mouse turned her pink eyes towards Jürgen. "You have good
>news?"
CROW: Look, honey, I don't think anyone's going to be falling over themselves
to bring you bad news. I really don't.
>"Mister Fenton heard a cruise ship approaching. Animal, not Human. We
>can intercept it within the hour."
TOM: [worried] So... animals build cruise ships?
JOEL: Seems like it.
>Slowly, the Gray Mouse smiled. Inured by long experience, Jürgen merely
>shuddered. "The screams and terror of the innocent passengers will draw
>my friend irresistibly towards our fated rendezvous," she mused,
>gesturing towards the pile of broken plastic in the press. "Providence
>is with me," she said gently.
TOM: [JÜRGEN] Yes, ma'am. Oh, over there in the corner, there's a bit of
the scenery you haven't chewed yet.
>"And we won't have to risk assaulting their base," Jürgen pointed out.
>"We'd almost certainly lose some crew." The Gray Mouse blinked, turned
>to her File Cabinet of Doom, and searched for a folder. She withdrew a
>sheet of paper and handed it to Jürgen.
>
>"Before this begins, I'd like you to read this."
CROW: [JÜRGEN] Oh God, not more poetry...
TOM: Birdie, birdie, flying high,
Why do you make me want to die?
>Jürgen skimmed it; it seemed to be a psychological profile. "Bouts of
>depression, prone to withdraw into work, fear of affection... have you
>been seeing a psychiatrist?" he asked gently.
>
>She snatched the paper from him. "It's the target," she said, miffed.
CROW: [GRAY MOUSE] Actually, in this fanfic, it's just about everybody.
>Jürgen slapped his forehead comically and chuckled at himself. He
>started to hand her the effigy head. He suddenly frowned, puzzled. "Say,
>this looks a bit like you."
TOM: [JÜRGEN] Apart from you having a body.
JOEL: Uh-oh.
>"Don't be silly."
TOM: [sniff sniff] What's that smell?
>"No, really." He held the head up sideways. "Her snout is wider, but
>it's the profile - people don't know how their own profiles look, so you
>don't recognize it."
CROW: [sniff] Smells like... foreshadowing.
>"I don't see any resemblance."
TOM: Between this or any character owned by Disney.
>"See? You wear your scuba mask on top of your head, and -"
JOEL: Gee, could you give us another hint? I think Little Timmy in Albany
hasn't caught on yet.
>"There is no similarity between us. We are not connected in word, nor
>thought, nor deed. We are different in every possible measure of
>behavior. Unlike as a pea and a pigeon. This is one person. I am
>another. This the anvil. I the hammer. This the spoiled, privileged,
>effete, decadent, spongy pig iron, and I the case-hardened steel born of
>flame. This the pebble. I the mountain. This, the plague bacillus. I the
>antibiotic.
CROW: Okay already! The audience isn't the one from Sesame Street, you know.
> This electron. I positron.
TOM: This Robert Lippert, I Kurosawa.
> Oh, perhaps a few superficial
>similarities could be identified - number of ears, number of eyes,
>species - but this is antithesis. I am thesis. No, I am NEMESIS! Fated
>to rid the earth and cosmos of a certain polluting presence - I'm sorry.
>I didn't mean to shout."
JOEL: I'll bet she does work for Gizmonics.
>"Oh, you weren't shouting."
>
>"I thought I was."
>
>"No, no, you were just modulating your voice." Jürgen was looking more
>closely at the head with a frown, and nodding slowly. "You're absolutely
>right, of course. As my eyes adjust to the light I can see there's no
>resemblance."
>
>"None whatsoever!"
CROW: What were they talking about again?
TOM: This and "Chip 'n' Dale's Rescue Rangers".
>"Look at that weak chin and the mindless eyes."
>
>"Ha ha!"
>
>"Ha ha!" Jürgen forced a laugh. His ears were still ringing from the
>word "nemesis."
TOM: Because it was one lousy movie.
CROW: I liked it.
TOM: See?
CROW: Why, you...
>"And those stupid goggles! And the hair - it looks like a cotton swab
>soaked in paint!"
JOEL: If you haven't figured this out yet, please report to Room 1612 for
your Free Clue.
>"On you that style looks good," Jürgen unwisely pointed out, "but that
>shade of yellow -"
>
>"I wonder what bottle it came out of!"
>
>"Probably Testors!"
>
>"Ha ha!"
CROW: Testors?
TOM: Model paint.
>The Gray Mouse was happier than he had ever seen her. Jürgen decided to
>ask what might be a delicate question.
CROW: [JÜRGEN] You seem a little tense. I give a wonderful back rub.
> "Not that I'm not willing to lay
>down my life on the altar of your vengeance and all, but what did she do
>to you?"
>
>The Gray Mouse blinked. "Actually, we've never met."
>
>Jürgen's gaze panned the horribly disfigured representations that filled
>the room. "Oooohhhhh-kay," he said, with a wide, fixed grin. His ears
>perked. The Gray Mouse was picking up a weapon of her own devising and
>hoisting it to firing position over her shoulder: the .22 caliber Darned
>Nearly Recoilless Rifle. He glanced around uneasily for a target,
>noticed the head in his hands, put it on a stand and dove for cover.
JOEL: Look out - it's a mouse with a zip gun!
TOM: Tabby, beware!
>The Gray Mouse aimed briefly, and pulled the trigger. The firing pin
>snapped down on the rimfire cartridge, setting it off. Newtonian laws
>were amply demonstrated.
TOM: Prepare yourself for the thrilling exposition of recoilless rifle
technology.
> As the bullet went forward, the brass casing
>shot backwards, both cocking the firing pin and absorbing Darned Nearly
>all the Recoil.
JOEL: I tell you, my heart is in my throat...
> What was left flipped the Gray Mouse over; spinning her
>twice before slamming her into the steel deck. The casing, the bullet,
>and the fragments of PVC head ricocheted dramatically for several
>seconds; perhaps being low kept either of them from being hit. The room
>was full of dark, stinging smoke and the smell of cordite.
TOM: Uh oh, it's the landlady.
CROW: [falsetto] Are you firing recoilless weapons indoors again?
JOEL: Uh... no?
CROW: [falsetto] Are you building an interocitor?
>"Smokeless powder my tail," the Gray Mouse said, voice muffled by her
>cape.
>
>"I can't hear you," said Jürgen. "I think I've been temporarily deafened
>by the report of a .22 rifle round fired in an enclosed space."
>
>"It's no use trying to talk," the Gray Mouse explained. "We've been
>temporarily deafened by the report of a .22 rifle round fired in an
>enclosed space."
>
>"What?"
>
>"What?"
CROW: Does the hilarity ever let up?
>Chapter Three : Reach Out and Touch Someone
>
>Gadget was more interested in mechanical engineering than computers,
JOEL: But you've probably guessed that by now, haven't you?
>which was the only thing keeping her from setting up "rescueranger.org".
>Instead, a grateful mouse at the public library had given them Internet
>access. She was checking her email, dancing across the onscreen keyboard
>of a PalmPilot like Tom Hanks playing a piano in Big. She appreciated
>the chance to interact with others without their knowing she was a
>mouse, let alone a Rescue Ranger. As netiquette demanded, she used the
>"8" character in her emoticons to let other animals know she was
>actually a mouse.
TOM: Now that the secret's out, I guess everyone will know.
>At 1830 (-5) "GH@PUBLIB.ORG" Said:
>
>>I mean, it's not that I don't like the end users, but they keep
>>asking for these silly, weight wasting additions! Like brakes.
>
>Users are always like that -- as though it weren't hard enough to reach
>top speed anyway! Since I work more with maritime vehicles, at least
>they don't whine about wanting brakes, but lifeboats are almost as hard!
CROW: Joel, do you think the engineers who built the Satellite of Love had
conversations like that?
JOEL: Thanks, Crow. I really needed that thought.
CROW: Any time.
>8:-/
>
>Thanks very much for your invitation, but I'm afraid I'll just be
>staying in your area long enough to wreak horrible, crunchy vengeance
>for wrongs committed against me in the past.
TOM: I think I met her on a mailing list, once.
>--WH@WoodsHoleResearch.com
>
>Gadget chuckled. Ah, these academics. Somebody had probably misspelled
>WH's real name in a citation. "WH" was one of her favorite net
>correspondents, another mouse engineer. She replied:
>
>Sorry to hear you're busy. Maybe some other time. Best of luck with the
>vengeance! 8:-)
>
>--GH@PUBLIB.ORG
TOM: Irony, best ladled on with a trowel.
>Gadget was not the first to misjudge someone over the Internet; nor
>would she be the last.
TOM: We're done for now, guys.
JOEL: Thank goodness.
[1 ... 2 ... 3 ... 4 ... 5 ... 6 ... SoL]
[JOEL, TOM, and CROW on the main deck. JOEL wears a Mickey Mouse tie on his
jumpsuit, and has a Palm case on his belt; the bots are all in business
casual, with various cartoon characters tastefully embroidered on their
pockets and/or ties. CROW holds a PalmPilot Pro in his hand. They lounge
around a water cooler.]
JOEL: So anyway, this [Quote finger gesture] "Technical Recruiter" asks me
about my experience in the construction industry.
TOM: You worked in the construction industry?
JOEL: Not at all. She read the part of my resume where I talked about
automated regression testing to ensure the quality of multiple builds of
software, and thought it meant buildings!
CROW: [Rolls eyes and laughs]
TOM: D'oh!
[JOEL looks up at the camera.]
JOEL: Hi, everybody. The bots and I decided we would try to work with this
fanfic by joining the demographic it is obviously written for.
TOM: Technically astute fans of children's television.
CROW: Did I tell you I met the bully who made my High School career a living
hell last week?
JOEL: No.
TOM: What did you say to him?
CROW: "Give me ten dollars on pump three."
[JOEL and TOM laugh.]
TOM: Remember those big TI calculators we used to use, with the belt
pouches?
JOEL: Yeah... time changes things, huh? Hey, Crow, I've got that URL with the
Gadget pictures you asked me about.
CROW: [lecherously] Ahhh...
TOM: I heard it's really Luwhiney, and the artist just *claims* it's Gadget.
JOEL: [takes out his Palm III] Here, let me beam it over to you. Oh, wait. I
forgot. You have a PalmPilot Pro.
TOM: Guess *some* of us don't think they need an infrared port on their palm
computers.
CROW: Would you mind sending the URL to the Synapse alphanumeric pager I got
with my Palm III OS upgrade chip? I could have gone with the IR port,
but this was more expensive and even less useful.
JOEL: I'm sorry I ever doubted you, buddy.
[Pause]
TOM: I wish we knew some girls.
[Silence]
[Commercial sign. A pensive JOEL hits the button.]